Had a poem buzzing around in my head for the last few days, driving me nuts because I didn't have the time to get it all down, and couldn't stop thinking about it and was afraid that I was going to lose it. Finally the anxiety and pressure to write it down got large enough to be disruptive and force me to gather all the pieces of paper that I had been scrawling lines of it on and retire to the computer.
This is the first new poem that I have written since the beginning of May, and the first poem that I thought was worth anything since the beginning of April. I was relieved that the gift/muse/curse hadn't left me at the same time that I was unpleasantly and forcibly reminded why I am a poet: because I have no choice. Because when a poem moves through me I must give it form and substance or else go mad. That sounds a bit dramatic, and I'll be the first to admit that I am a bit more than dramatic, but if you could have seen me (and been inside my head) the last few days while I was possessed by poesy, and more importantly if you could see the calm now, you would know how dead accurate I am being.
I feel another storm brewing.